GERALD. That's too vague, my boy. Do you think they'll ever make a bust-up?
OLIVER. I can't tell. I don't see any good in it, if they do.
GERALD. It might clear the way—and it might block the way for ever: depends what comes through. But, sincerely, I don't think they've got it in them.
ANABEL. They may have something better.
GERALD. That suggestion doesn't interest me, Anabel. Ah, well, we shall see what we shall see. Have a whisky and soda with me, Oliver, and let the troubled course of this evening run to a smooth close. It's quite like old times. Aren't you smoking, Anabel?
ANABEL. No, thanks.
GERALD. I believe you're a reformed character. So it won't be like old times, after all.
ANABEL. I don't want old times. I want new ones.
GERALD. Wait till Job Arthur has risen like Anti-christ, and proclaimed the resurrection of the gods.—Do you see Job Arthur proclaiming Dionysos and Aphrodite?
ANABEL. It bores me. I don't like your mood. Good night.